A Love Letter
by soul release
Summary: She scribbles down on a sheet of parchment: "This is story about love. Broken love."


**A Love Letter**

This is a story about love. Broken love.

To whom it may concern (or who has pitifully stumbled across it),

If you asked me exactly when, I doubt I would remember.

I haven't exactly got the greatest memory in the world, and tend to forget my assignment dates and so forth, and here Hermione would give me the most disapproving, chastising evil eye that has yet to be rivaled. But it isn't that why I don't remember.

Anyways, that's beside the point.

What is the point exactly? I haven't a clue. I'm not even sure why I started taking out my quill, quite broken and snapped at the ends with feathers sticking out, and writing random, completely unrelated points across the parchment. I guess maybe it's gotten to the point that it hurts so much that I can only vent it out through nonviolent means. I don't know. My mind is so foggy with confused thoughts and convoluted to the point of irrationality that I can only sit down and write, I suppose, just to clear things up for once.

Love, I think, is such a strange thing. Some people seem to have the greatest luck with it (look at Parvati and her numerous affairs and her claims that she is _so _obviously in love – and her relationships do last for a long time) and some people seem to just seem to be so terrible at it.

I'm one of those people. But then again, I'm horrid at about everything except for Charms and my darling Bat-Bogey Hexes.

And it's quite funny really. As a child, I've been more of the romantic than normal (blame fairy tales!). I've thought of having a Prince Charming and having him climb up my tower on a trellis and sharing those happily-ever-afters that seem so foolish and ridiculous now and live in a glorious castle with a charming view over the sea. Silly, I know. But truth is, I have thought of it. And I have believed it, quite honestly. I'm stupid like that. I'm worse than fools.

Well …

… haha?

Now, my tower is nothing but my little dorm, cluttered with yesterday's homework and pillows and too-old teddy bears that I can't seem to let go of and too much poetry to be considered healthy. Now my trellis is nothing but a wilting flower by my window, curled over and shriveled and withered roses from Michael with no special meaning behind them. Now, my Prince Charming doesn't even know my name, doesn't even _know _me, to start with, and I have been waiting in the dust for way too long (Ah! Dust bunnies are staring at me), and what makes it utterly tragic is that I haven't been able to quite let him go. See? I am terrible at it. I'm not only terrible. I'm _horrid_.

And my fairy tale is not a fairy tale, or a beautifully woven love story. And if it were a fairy tale, and I were a forlorn princess trapped in a tower with an evil mage holding me captive and going "Bwheeehee" and cackling sinisterly every two bloody seconds, yes, everything would have gone differently, as I hoped, he would have saved me with his dashing gallantry and debonair countenance and we would have had the perfect ending and I would not be writing this ludicrously absurd letter. But clearly, things have not because I _am _writing this absurd letter of death and all things unpleasant. It is a love story, I must say. But it isn't lovely. The romance has been turned down to the bare minimum, unless you count random blushing and sneaking peeks at his face then burning as red as a tomato. And thus, this gives me the privilege to downright say:

O woe is me.

So back to my original question because … well, because, because.

I think I do, however, remember when I first met him, face to face – now, at least. Before, I only heard of his name on the newspapers or some of my Mom's ten-year old books left in the attic filled with dust. He was so different, set apart from the rest of us. I mean, some part of him – him entirely – just stood out, protruded out from the too-small kitchen, the pots and the simmering eggs on the stove and the twins, who looked indignant that Mum had just screamed and ranted and yelped at them for improper use of Muggle whatchamacallit. His eyes were so green, and even though he was a thin as bone, you could tell – really – you could tell just by looking at him that he was a hero. He didn't look like much, and yet he was. And there was so much to him, this sense of enigma that I couldn't quite comprehend and was enthralled by. I've always been drawn to heroes and dark knights and childish stories.

It was then, I suppose, when I called him Prince Charming, to be exact. Yes, before I mooned around my room full of eclectic junk and wondered what it would be like, to see The Boy Who Lived and Is Still Victorious and Ha Take That He Who Must Not Be Named! And I already imagined what he would like and daydreamed of him – in a somewhat romantic way, I admit (such folly) because I was, by all means, the hopeless romantic who dreamed of everlasting love and all that other ridiculous things of that sort, but it was _then _– and _then _exactly, when I fell in love, rather hopelessly. I suppose I do remember things sometimes, quite strangely. Who knows? Miracles do happen (for minor things only!). Just not for me and the insane lunatic called love.

And then the inevitable happened. (insert dramatic music)

He and I fell in love and we had the greatest affair in history (include more sappy passages full of explicit detail that is quite honestly useless and stupid to put down because I doubt anyone cares).

Really.

…

…

I really do have a knack for lying.

And I'm not going to tell you how much it hurt.

I've tried giving this hope, stupid, blasted dream up. The _sensible, rational _part of me comprehends fully that na-da, it won't happen. It won't. It won't. He's not ever going come up the non-existent trellis and gather me up in his arms and … well, you get the point, unless you want me to ramble for about – oh, let's say forty minutes – and insert all sorts of pretty, and over soap-opera-ish romantic detail that just seem to bombard my head all the time. Or I at least hope you do. What stupid part of me thought he would anyways? He's the hero, glorified in this world, revered and honored by so many. He can have almost any girl as his girlfriend, lover, etcetera, because for mercy's sake, he's been named "Most Eligible Bachelor" twenty times on Teen Witch Weekly, even if he's only seventeen and it's kind of ridiculous. I'm so plain, too stupid. My hair is too red, and there are too many freckles on my face. Too mediocre to be wanted, to overshadowed to be noticed.

Love, I think, is such a strange thing.

It's so stubborn sometimes to the point of nonsense. Because no matter how much you try, to shut this stupid thing out of your head, even if you chant "I don't like him" repeatedly a gazillion times over, and avoid him altogether, and try to just _stop, let go_, you just can't. You can't. It's impossible. Utterly I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E! (insert whole row of exclamation marks).

I've tried.

Tried.

Really, I did.

No, I am not lying (please don't be a prat).

So now I'm still in love with him. Yes, I still am, and I shall gladly admit it to anyone except for him, of course, because that would be stupid, and I'm not that stupid. I watch him – and I know his movements perfectly now that I know that's creepy and you can call me a stalker if you wish and if it makes you happy. I'm still in love, I'm still in love, I'm still in love, and it hurts, it kills, it's destroying me, and I'm falling apart into pieces while just watching him, watching him live, watching him breathe, watching him fall in love with more beautiful girls than stupid, old me.

What is there to do?

What can I do?

In this tragic unrequited love affair-ish thing, I have learned one thing though. I have learned one thing about this strange thing called love, or several things, but one just sounds better and more melodramatic, I suppose. In some ways, I'm glad I've fallen in love with him. In some ways, I am glad beneath all those tears and depressing afternoons and heartbreaks.

Love is strange.

Love hurts.

Love is stubborn.

And you can't let it go.

Yours truly,

Stupid, little girl

END

Author's Note: Based on a personal experience. Don't ask.

P.S. I might revise this later so that the story is more coherent.


End file.
